They clapped, and the smiles were warm and sincere, but Tara knew that the very last people she’d be sharing her current state of crisis with was her colleagues. For one thing, she had her professional reputation to think of. For another, she didn’t think angel healing was going to cut it.

CHAPTER TWO

Tara tried to phone her brother again as she was getting ready for work the following morning. Ironically, despite Toby’s visibility on all major platforms in his capacity as a freelance lifestyle columnist/Influencer-with-a-capital-I/blogger/fringe social media personality, he was hard to get hold of in person. Maybe that was the point.

She scrolled through the Instagram photos of the restaurant opening that had alerted her to Toby’s presence online, and thus the consequent possibility that he had his phone in his hand. Tara needed to talk to him. Actual talking, not texts or likes. The brief period of renewed communication that had followed their mother’s sudden death had begun to peter out after a few weeks, but she was doing her best to maintain the momentum, even if it meant she was mainly chatting to herself.

Tara still felt Toby’s absence, even now. When she thought about their childhood, the world seemed several shades more colourful, and that wasn’t just nostalgia. It was Toby: his outlook and his outrageous humour and his wordless understanding of her. She knew why Toby had left – Longhampton was never going to be big enough for him – but it hurt that he’d left her behind too. It hurt so much that she’d never found the right words to tell him.

Tara sighed, listening to the long American rings at the other end. Toby, of course, would counter that there was nothing stopping her coming out to spend time with him. And he was right.

It was ten in Seattle, if he was at home. Not that late. Was he ignoring her? Tara buttered some toast and flicked on the coffee machine. Maybe he was posting from his laptop. Maybe his phone was in his bag.

There were at least two tricky conversations Tara needed to have with her brother, both related to Ruth’s will, neither of which she was looking forward to, but wouldn’t be able to avoid much longer. Ideally, they were face-to-face, in-person conversations, but Tara knew the chances of luring Toby back to Longhampton any time soon were low, unless she invented a new form of underwater yoga or launched a carbon-neutral noodle bar.

The call went to voicemail, and Tara hung up, feeling snubbed. Then she frowned and dialled again, using the time until the message kicked in to fork cat food into a porcelain bowl with Princess Paws written on it.